A SMALL BOX
OF VERY SHORT
STORIES.
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One Hundred and Forty-five Stories in a Small Box, just now out from us, is actually three books: Minor Robberies by Deb Olin Unferth, Hard to Admit and Harder to Escape by Sarah Manguso, and How the Water Feels to the Fishes by Dave Eggers. Each book, by itself, is a very good collection of very short fiction, full of 200-word stories that are as soft as knives and as sharp as grandmothers, with subjects ranging from mysterious islands to revisionist kidnappings to singers with gorgeous chins. Together, the set showcases 145 instant universes, all somehow contained in one magnificent slipcase, which is blue and gray and flecked with gold.
The early reviews have been terrific: Stop Smiling says, "Each of the stories in Small Box begs to be torn from its binding, folded into a pocket or purse and carried around for future reflection"; National Book Critics Circle president John Freeman has put the set near the top of his fall reading list; and Bookslut wrote one of the best reviews we've ever gotten. Today, below, we're presenting one story from each author. You can find the whole set, and its eerie, handsome box, here.
49.
BY SARAH MANGUSO
There's one girl in the nursery I decide I love. I stare at her and try to think of what I should call her. I decide I will call her Benny, and I approach her. "Hi, Benny," I say. Another girl pipes up. "Her name's Becky, not Benny," she informs me. But what she doesn't know is that I got to within one consonant of the girl's name just by looking at her.
The Anger of the Horses.
BY DAVE EGGERS
Last week we let all the horses go. It seemed the right thing to do. We tore down the fences, burned the bridles and the saddles, and told the horses they were free. At first they hesitated. "Go, go," we said. "Go." And so they went, up over the hill, across the plain and into the mountains. Two days later they returned. "We're bored," they said. So we sat with the horses for a while, trying to think of something for them to do. Before we could think of anything, the horses had an idea of their own. "Let's kill all the rabbits!" they said, their black eyes alight. "Let's kill all those goddamned rabbits!" they added. The horses became more and more inflamed as they talked about the details of the plan. "We'll run and find them, help flush them out," they said, "and then you can shoot them since you have the guns." They were pacing and snorting, shaking their manes and tails, ready to get started. It turns out the horses had hated the rabbits for a long, long time.
Dog.
BY DEB OLIN UNFERTH
He made it to the United States at last and that was the end of it, except years later he noticed a dog on the street. Come here, dog, he said, and it wouldn't come. He put out a little food for it, every day he put out a little food, and a little more, and the dog ate it bit by bit. Finally he got the dog into the car. He brought it home to the wife.
Already we got two damn dogs, the wife said. What we need this for?
Need? he said. Who needs? Want.
Already we got, she said. What we want this for?
So he took the dog to the pound and he said, Dog, I'll come back for you tomorrow.
Who knows why he brought it there. Maybe so he could negotiate with the wife. Or maybe he meant to leave it and then he changed his mind. Whatever the reason, he went to sleep and woke up and went back to the pound.
I've come to get my dog, he said.
That's our dog now, they said.
What, your dog. My dog.
You brought him here, they said, and they went into a long explanation about how now he would have to pay money and fill out forms and watch a video and show proof of residence and wait four days and all this, and he listened and listened and looked at the forms and finally he said, Okay, you got me. I won't take him back. But can I just see him to say good-bye?
Yes, they said. They took him to the back, where the dogs were.
Hello, dog, he said. Sorry, old dog. He petted it. He petted it again. Good-bye, dog. Then he went to leave. I'll just go out this back door, he said sadly, and he left.
Then he came back. He sneaked in the back door and took the dog. Stole it. He brought it to a friend's house and put it in the garage. Then he went back to the pound. I've changed my mind, he said. I really do want my dog back. Can you go get him? I'll pay and sign the papers and watch the video.
Okay, they said, and they went to the back to get him. But of course they couldn't find the dog and they got quite upset—how could they have lost a dog?
Then they must have thought he was really crazy, because he said, I stole that dog! You robbers. I'll tell you what I did. I stole that dog right back.
Now this is a man who had been interrogated and tortured. Each of his fingers had been broken one by one. For years he sat in solitary in the dark and for more years he cracked rocks with crooked fingers in prison mines.
They called the police on him. The police went to his house but he wouldn't let them in. He shouted out the window, You think you take the dog! I take the dog! They got a warrant and the wife let them in, but the dog wasn't there. The police tried to ask him where the dog was but all he would do is laugh. I've got that dog, he said. You thieves. You try to steal the dog!
Eventually the police left.
That dog is dead now.
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To read the other 142, click here.
To have some of them read to you, go see Deb Olin Unferth, who will be reading with a couple of friends this Saturday at Powell's North, in Chicago, as part of the Small Box of Stories Tour.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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A Small Box of Very Short Stories
I See No Other Option Than to Resign as Emily Dickinson's Rap-Battle Coach By Tyler Smith
Welcoming Remarks Made at a Literary Reading, 9/25/01 By John Hodgman
For Whom the Whistle Blows: A Physical-Education Instructor Contemplates His Own Mortality By Emily Axford
LSAT Practice By Shaun Spalding
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